


A Tempest Night

by Nordic_Breeze



Series: Nighttime Encounters [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Cunnilingus, Dom Arthur Morgan, F/M, Light Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, Naked Female Clothed Male, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Suspense, Vaginal Fingering, body and mind in conflict, conflicting emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordic_Breeze/pseuds/Nordic_Breeze
Summary: They meet again in the small hours, their mutual yearn as raging as the storm outside.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Reader
Series: Nighttime Encounters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554115
Comments: 15
Kudos: 90





	A Tempest Night

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at dom!(ish)Arthur. I do prefer sub!Arthur but I wanted to have a go at a 'reverse of roles' as from what is in part 1 of this series, and I learned I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would.
> 
> This is a continuation of The Ambivalence of Moral Ambiguity, where the main character is an unnamed woman who can be read as either a reader insert or an OC.

It’s such a cliché.

_It was a dark and stormy night…_

On bare feet she tiptoes across the floor of the small abode she calls her home. A gun in one hand. A kerosene lamp in the other, its flame barely lit. With her gaze she trails the outline of furniture and adornments. There is nothing out of the ordinary, and yet – what is warm and welcoming under the sun feels foreign in the dark, tempest night _._ Haunting even. Like she’s a stranger in her own home. It’s an eerie, uncanny feeling. Like perceiving the world from inside a bubble she cannot burst.

“Is anyone here?”

A flash lights up the interior. For half a heartbeat, the entire room bathes in blinding white, followed by low, ill-omened rumbles. High up in the sky dark clouds collide, their rage heard – and seen for miles and miles ahead.

“H-hello?”

Her voice, trembly and weak, drowns in the ghostlike howls of wind snaking its way across the land in between leaves and branches, hills and rooftops. An ear-splitting bang pierces her ears and probes her mind, possessing her every thought and attention. She loudly exclaims her alarm, and intuitively spins towards the noise. Her eyes shift left and right in frantic search for the source. She listens to the pleas and moans of trees bending and folding to the rampant storm. She is dead sure, she just heard the shrill cry of a banshee. What she does not hear are the footsteps behind her.

She exhales in relief. It was just a branch that hit the window. With the lantern raised high she stands still, spellbound by the jagged, serpentine contours of branchlets and twigs bouncing and bobbing in the wind, like the jittery legs of gigantanormous spiders.

Another flash of white. She turns on her heels. This time, to a very real threat. A broad-shouldered, cowboy-hat-wearing silhouette is leaning against the doorframe. Waves of alternating hot and cold rush through her. She all but manages a quenched yelp. The lantern falls to the floor.

Had anyone asked what she’d do in such a situation, she would’ve spoken with unwavering ardor of _screaming, yelling_ , and _shooting_ with the utmost confidence and self-assurance. However, it’s one thing to casually speak of such horrors when safety brings with it the gift of clarity of thought. It’s another thing to experience said horrors in the flesh. Literally. She stands frozen, an untold number of scenarios and outcomes racing through her head, from plausible to unlikely, and none of them good – for her.

She raises her gun.

There is nothing in his posture to suggest the barrel pointing at him worries him the slightest. He stands still, with his hands resting on his belt. _Why?_ Maybe he just wants to talk? Or is he charging up to a cruel cat-and-mouse game she is doomed to lose?

Is he even real?

A faint, though nevertheless perceivable heave and fall of his chest and raindrops falling from the brim of his hat confirm that yes, he is real indeed.

“Wh-who are you?”

He lifts his shoulder off the wall, stepping closer.

“What do you want? Get out!”

Slowly. Leisurely. Taking his time. One foot in front of the other. _Her_ feet move backwards, until her heel strikes wall. She pulls the trigger – resulting in taunting, empty clicks.

_How?_

Within grabbing range, he takes the gun gently out of her hand.

“You don’t recognize me?”

She squints, tilting her head to better see the features concealed by the broad-brimmed hat. There is something vaguely familiar about him. About his voice.

“Arthur?”

She reaches out, touching him by instinct. She feels the soggy warmth of his rain-soaked skin. “What are you doing here?” she whispers. “How’d you find me?”

He touches her in return. Fingertips slide up her arm, gingerly cupping her bare shoulder. He caresses her gently with his thumb. A shiver runs through her spine, hitching her breath.

“You ain’t that hard to find, Miss.”

She has no desire of prolonging the visit, though the budding pulse south of her lower abdomen would beg to differ – had she been willing to acknowledge it.

“I have nothing of value, I-”

“I ain’t here to rob ya.”

“Then what-”

He trails the outline of her collarbone and up the pulse line on her neck, stalling at her jawline where he bobs her chin with the tip of his index. Her already jittery heart is now pounding fiercely against her ribs.

“Is my turn now.”

“Your turn to what?”

It is barely a whisper.

_He couldn’t possibly mean…_

“I pointed my gun at you. Now you pointed yours at me. That makes us even.” He lets go of her chin to caress her neck in sensual, swirling motions. “On that, at least.”

Another flash of white leaves no doubt it is indeed him. Arthur. The outlaw who held a gun to her chest a fortnight ago in the midst of the treacherous Roanoke forest. She locks her gaze with his. Her mind screams danger, _alarm,_ a peculiar contrast to the throbbing heat between her legs.

“If you think you have a score to settle, you could’ve come during the day,” she challenges. “At least you could’ve knocked.”

“Maybe,” he responds in a sultry voice, feeling the laces on her chemise between his fingers, “But then I couldn’t’ve done this.”

“Done wh-”

Without warning, he rips her nightgown clear of, after which he takes a step back to watch the fabric fall to the floor. A smile spreads on his lips. She’s not wearing drawers.

She stands naked in front of him, surrounded by a halo of white while he is still fully dressed. Her arms shoot up to her chest. He places both hands on her knitted arms and pulls her towards the bed with a decisive yet gentle grip. She lets out a helpless yelp. Her little heart is fiercely pounding, out of rage, out of fear, out of want, or more likely – all at once.

He tosses her onto the mattress and crawls on top of her, looming over her much smaller, quivering figure on all four with a lopsided, vindictive smirk.

“Yer gonna be a good girl’n behave for me?”

He slides the tip of his index down the inside of her thigh. She wants to push him away. To yell at him to get the hell out of her home. But her traitorous legs part by the mere sensation of his fingers gliding down her thigh.

Slowly. Ever. So tantalizingly. Slow.

Though he is hovering above her, he is not physically holding onto her. In fact, he is barely touching her. Would he hold her back by force if she were to move? As much as she hates to admit it, the very thought of him doing just that makes her go hot. She stays in place, stunned and revolted by her lust for this dangerous stranger.

His fingers reach the side of her folds. Trailing up and down and up again. His gaze glued to her face, watching in delight every minor twitch of feature and hitch of breath, a visualization of the raging conflict within her so aptly reflected in her eyes burning with want and wrath. He leans in close, his face a mere inch from hers.

“I said, yer gonna be good?”

She clasps her mouth shut, blowing air through her nose like a raging bull. A self-satisfied, impish smirk spreads on his face. He flexes his arm, increasing the distance between their lips, making her realize she’d been yearning for a kiss she does not even want. Or, does she?

“That’s my girl. Now, spread yer pretty legs for me.”

The distance between her knees widens. He parts her folds, unhurriedly stroking, – and stoking, the core of her hearth. She gasps but manages to hold back on whimpers and moans with somewhat success. Until he pushes two fingers inside of her.

“Yer so tight,” he growls, deftly circling her already swollen nub. “I like that.”

A cadence of lust escapes her lips. The burning desire to tell him to get the hell out is rapidly replaced by an even more intense, scorching desire to beg for his cock. Appalled by her rising, wanton heat she lets in a sharp intake of breath, in disbelief, in disgust by her own concupiscence. Oh, how sweet can that be which is deemed improper by society or by one’s own convictions.

He slows down, touching her still, but with a bare minimum. She intuitively arches her hips, pushing against his fingers in a silent plea for more of this titillating skin-to-skin, which prompts him to remove his hand altogether. Most unwillingly, she lets out a frustrated whine, which does nothing short of arousing him.

“Didn’t like that, did ya?” he leers, putting the tip of his fingers to his mouth. His piercing stare is drilling into hers as he unhurriedly licks his fingers, tasting her. A flash illuminates his face.

Her cheeks are burning – for more than one reason. “Fuck you.”

He leans in close to her ear, his voice husky and low. “Patience, sweetheart. I’ll get to that in a bit.”

The retort in her throat is effectively silenced when he slides his hand back between her legs, and without warning penetrates her with three of his digits. A groan hitches in her throat, followed by rapid, voluptuous breaths and a sudden, increased slick. Moving his knee for support, he lifts his other hand from the mattress and grabs a hold of her hair, forcing her line of vision to the center of the action – _her_ center, and his hand playing her like a fiddle, forcing her to see for herself how eagerly her body is accepting him. He moves his fingers out of her so that she can see, even in this dim light, how drenched they are.

“You like me touchin’ you?” His thumb glides over his fingers, shiny and smooth. “Feels like you do.”

Reluctantly, she succumbs to the effect which the sight has on her. She sinks into the mattress, a soundless gasp escaping her parted lips as he resumes his dexterous tease. Arthur can no longer resist kissing her. His fingers continue to pump in and out of her as his lips close around hers.

She opens her mouth for him, accepting his kiss with keen eagerness, writhing and grinding against him. He lets go of her lips and she lets out a gasp as he begins to travel down her body in a straight line, peppering her with soft kisses at the pit of her neck, her nipples, her navel, her-

He kisses the sides of her folds. So close, yet not quite there. His lips glide tentatively and titillatingly along the edge where skin meets flesh but a fingertip of length from where she wants, – _needs_ him. His hands trail the curves of her hips as he pushes her legs wide apart to accommodate for his shoulders. His warm breath whisks over her node. Oh, how he takes delight in teasing her. Taunting her. Making her beg, like she had with him. He won’t give her more until she does.

A breathy _please_ leaves her lips against her will. He follows up with the damned act of gently nipping at her inner folds, and the urge to beg once more bubbles up from her abdomen, her chest, her throat, fighting against the contrary urge of leering off insults.

"Please-"

“Please what?”

He glances up at the rapid rise and fall of her chest with a lopsided, wolfish grin. A rumble as deep and gravelly as the voice of the man between her parted legs drowns out her implores. “I didn’t hear that,” he taunts, tickling her with slow swirls by the tip of his tongue. “Please what?”

“Please, more. I want- I need you.”

The supplication is followed by a series of lewd, filthy moans through wide-apart lips. He chuckles at her rout and comes back up to grasp the back of her neck, pulling her in for a heated kiss, making sure she tastes herself – tastes her own willingness on his tongue and lips.

"Taste so good, feel so good," he croons between immodest, licentious kisses that slowly steer from her mouth to her neck.

“Want me to stay?”

To vigorous nods her hands fly to his belt. He stops her. Her arms are fanned out on the mattress as he pins her down by a firm grip on her wrists.

"Patience, sweetheart."

He kisses her again before letting go of her hands to continue the torturously slow, though all the more arousing tease. On his way south nibbling, nipping, and biting her skin, sucking his way down her neck, leaving his mark on her. He gives in to the temptation of a pit stop to brush his lips over the delicate peaks of her bosom. He lingers triumphantly at the summit, sensing with prideful delight the seething, fiery storm within. A storm as intense as the one outside. Then he goes lower.

_Lower._

“Tonight, yer mine,” he breathes, ghosting his lips over her hearth. “All mine.”

The statement is followed by a soft, languid kiss right where she needs him the most. And _soft_ is not nearly enough. Not anymore. Not now.

“Yours. All yours. I _need_ you. Please.”

He lets out a satisfactory chuckle at her whimpering pleas laced with submission and surrender and rewards her with his tongue. She no longer tries to fight her carnal urge. Nor does she want to. That battle is long lost. Through the high winds, storms of rain and raging thunder outside, the rousing, _filthy_ sounds of his mouth on her most intimate reach her ears, as her uneven, libidinous breaths reach his.

An impromptu jolt of her hip, and her pelvis pushes against his mouth. She can’t help it, even if she knows she will be penalized. _He_ decides the pace. _She_ is to keep herself open before him and take what he is willing to give.

The retreat she knew would come is followed by a series of breathy _please, more,_ and _gimme_ in between unfulfilled cries, and he almost takes her right here and now. _Almost._

“Don’t stop. I beg- _AH!_ ”

To make up for her disobedience, she beseechs with raised intense. The more she raunchily reiterate her surrender, the more he gives her. If her voice fades, he slows down, or even removing his mouth altogether until she wantonly resumes her lecherous pleas.

Another impromptu jolt has her levitating the mattress as his tongue slides firmly and leisurely over that particular bundle of nerves.

 _No!_ He can’t stop. He just can’t. Not now. Not when she is so close.

“Claim me. Use me! _Ah!_ Please, _please,_ PLEASE don’t stop.”

What follows is an explicit, raunchy description of all the ways he can use her to his satisfaction and desire. He rewards her chorale of subservience by slipping his tongue inside of her, which prompts from her a series of salacious expletives like he has never heard – and he has indeed heard his share of _that_. He has to use both hands to firmly hold her in place, grateful the storm outside effectively drowns out the lascivious noises erupting from her mouth.

“I-I’m I-”

A hot, wonderfully intense orgasm is simmering, like an overstrained dam threatening to burst any moment. She wriggles and twitches, she lewdly screams, arching her back and clenching the ruffled-up bedsheets as he sucks her clit with voracious gusto, until…

She stirs upright. A cry hitches in her throat. She leans against the wall by her bed, breathing heavily. She is in her room – her actual room, not the strange yet familiar cottage that it turns out was nothing but a figment of her imagination.

“Arthur?”

There is no answer. The wind and rustling of leaves outside and the faint hoot of an owl. The rest of the house is sleeping. And no one is here that does not belong. Disillusionment flares in her chest. Lower, a pulsating dissatisfaction of erotic repining. She rests her forehead in her palm and her elbow to a bent-up knee, waiting for the malaise to fade, hoping she hadn’t reproduced in her sleep the sounds which the mysterious outlaw had enticed from her in her dream.

It’s not the first time she’d dreamt of said outlaw but never as explicit and vividly as now – as is aptly accentuated by the damp heat between her legs.

She crawls out of bed and tiptoes over to the basin. It’s still in the middle of the night, yet she has a feeling she won’t get much sleep other than restless slumbers until morning comes. As the rest of the house sleeps, she lies awake - lost in a reverie, continuing from where her dream had ended.

**Author's Note:**

> Ehhh, sorry for... that. Maybe I should do a part 3? I feel a need for a part 3. As always, thank you for reading.


End file.
